


Bertrum's Fate

by Blaze22



Series: Lost [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaze22/pseuds/Blaze22
Summary: Bertrum Piedmont is the glorious designer of Bendy Land - or, rather, Bendy Hell. Discover what fate this man comes upon as he stumbles across a new job and employer that seems to be no different than any other. That's where he couldn't have been more wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! As a new member, please bear with me as I get the hang of things here. 
> 
> [Goes for all of the story]  
> This story's plot was based off of and inspired by SuperHorrorBro on YouTube from his theory video titled Bertrum's Fate. Credit goes to him! 
> 
> This specific chapter of the story is centralized around the first audio belonging to Bertrum that you can hear in the Bendy and the Ink Machine game.
> 
> With that being said, I hope you enjoy!

_Click-clack, click-clack, ziiiiiip, bing! Click-clack . . ._

There was a white haired woman sitting at a desk some ways into the office room, toiling away at a typewriter. She didn't take notice as two men walked up, one with a piece of rolled up parchment in his hand. 

Two large, glass windows made up most of the wall behind the desk, allowing sunlight to stream through. Cars could be seen surging back and forth like cockroaches down the street, along with humans scurrying along the crammed sidewalks within the Big Apple, resembling ants.

As the taller man, Joey Drew, cleared his throat, the secretary peered up at them over her spectacles, her fingers stopping their movement over the keys. Her milky blue eyes took a moment to focus in on the pair, and finally recognition flashed through them. With a start, the woman stood up. "Ah, Mister Piedmont, and . . . Mister Drew! Right this way, please," she said, turning to walk stiffly torwards a closed door. 

Bertrum followed Joey, taking his hat off with his free hand. It revealed a head of grey hair. The other man repeated the action, and they both shrugged off their coats to place the articles of clothing on the coat-rack positioned near the entrance of the door.

Joey Drew had become Bertrum's new employer three months ago, in August. During that time, Bertrum had been given the task of designing an amusement park based off of the Bendy cartoons that 'Joey Drew Studios' produced. Bendy Land would simply be another theme park to check off of Bertrum's ever-growing list of accomplishments. That was, if Joey Drew managed to settle investments for the park, which would fund the building process. That was this meeting's purpose. 

While the sight of the room may have had most men shaking in their boots, Bertrum held a cool front, while a boyish excitement radiated from Joey. There were six men loosely grouped around a large, oval table - all of them held big names in the industry. They were considered the 'giants' of investment within the past few years, so to speak. 

Simultaneously, they turned to face the pair who had entered. One man, stout with a shining bald head, strode forward, extending a hand torwards Joey. "Why, if it isn't Joey Drew! And this is . . . ?"

Bertrum bristled. He, Mr. Piedmont, the creator of collosal wonders for forty years, hadn't been recognized by the Wall Street tycoon - yet Joey had been?

Joey reached out to firmly grasp the man's hand, shaking it enthusiastically. "Mr. Burbanks, what a pleasure! This is Bertie," he said cheerfully, flashing a toothy smile to Mr. Burbanks, not sparing Bertrum a glance. 

_Bertie? Bertie?!_

Bertrum gritted his teeth, the friction causing a slight squeaking noise to be audible. How much more tactless could his employer be? He was Bertrum Piedmont, a legacy! Yet he had been downgraded to _Bertie_ , right in front of these men - who deserved to know exactly who he was. 

A vein pulsed in the middle of Bertrum's forehead, his mud colored eyes darting from the tycoon to Joey. As Mr. Burbanks dipped his head torwards Joey, he moved to shake 'Bertie's' hand. 

"Mr. Piedmont, to be exact," Bertrum managed out in a pleasant, but loud tone, shaking his hand.

The other investors who had been watching the exchange simply nodded to the pair, a few exchanging meaningful glances. It should have been out of place that the manager of a studio bring his hired designer to such a meeting, but Joey's action clearly had an affect on the men. Mr. Piedmont was indeed a legacy within the world of design and engineering. Someone who could be trusted to build something extraordinary, the papers said.

"Let's get moving to our business, shall we?" Joey said, motioning torwards Bertrum for the piece of vellum of which he tightly gripped between his fingers. Reluctantly, he complied and smoothed the parchment flat on the table. The investors made their way to the seats, one loading a pipe with tobacco once settled.

The next hour and a half passed by in a buzz. Explanations were given, negotiations made, and deals were struck. When the last stroke of ink dried on the dotted line, Bertrum and Joey shook hands with the men, and departed. 

As the two made their descent down the skyscraper, Bertrum was silent as Joey filled his ears with nonsensical chatter. He would be silent - every second scraping by another tick on his bomb. Joey Drew would be receiving an earful from him once they arrived in a more . . . private setting.

The aged man aimed a scathing look torwards a man hunched over, his rough voice grating Bertrum's ears as he begged the two for spare change while they exited the large building. Lifting his nose in disdain, he quickened his pace. Joey began calling for a cab, the destination Pennsylvania Station. 

Bertrum had more than words for Mister Drew. Joey would get his park, grand structures and all. But in time, Joey would realize that even the investments could not cover the cost of the large achievement. Then, and only then, would Bertrum be recognized for the glory he deserved.

Joey would acknowledge his mistake. All in good time.

Just he wait.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a cool and pleasant May morning. Birds were singing, and the grass was green on a fine day that was balancing on the edge of spring and summer. 

Workers could be seen entering a wooden building in a steady stream. Among those people walked a man with his head held high and briefcase in hand. It was none other than Bertrum Piedmont. 

Six months had passed since investments had been settled for Bendy Land. Over that course of time, many changes were brought over Joey Drew Studios. A whole slew of new workers were hired for the purpose of the construction, design, and management of the amusement park that was to be built. Storage Nine, located on floor level 'S', had been transformed into a bustling place; where previously a lone man had worked to sketch out the bones of the colossal wonder for Joey Drew. 

Along that period of time, a rocky relationship had been founded between manager Joey Drew and his designer, Bertrum. The pet name Bertrum had been dubbed in front of the high level investors, 'Bertie', was a far cry from being an affectionate pet name. Since then Joey had verbally snuck into nearly every little crevice of Bertrum's being, attempting to pry out his pride and lay it out before him.

For instance, throughout the multiple staff meetings that were held, Joey would occasionally sneak in sly comments alongside his speech about dreams. Most of them implied something along the lines of that the head of the Research and Design department was not fit for his job. Or, during a press interview Mr. Drew would give no comment to any questions from the press regarding Mr. Piedmont's role in the progress of the theme park. 

These actions led to explosive arguments between the two. They never seemed to be able land on any smooth middle ground. Bertrum refused to let his respect and fame be torn from him, yet Joey had become adamant that it would be so. 

Bertrum strode into the dimly lit studio, greeted by an atmosphere tainted with the scent of ever-present ink. He directed his steps torwards the lift, along with the others also needing to make their way to a lower level of the studio. 

Before he could make it far, a hand jumped out from the shadows and pulled at his wrist. The man, startled from the surprise at being pulled into a shadow of the corner, could not form a coherent protest because of a pair of brown eyes meeting his and narrowing. Hissing softly, Bertrum shook his wrist away and wrung it distastefully. 

"What do _you_ want?" he nearly spat, glaring at Norman Polk, who was gazing calmly at him. 

"Come and see. There's somethin' you should want to hear." Bertrum turned to stalk away in a huff, but stopped cold as the projectionist added, "It's about your Bendy Land." 

A million questions and spiteful remarks rose to Bertrum's tongue, but none spilled out as Norman beckoned him to follow quietly and walked away. After a brief moment of indecision, he strode after Norman. After all, the projectionist was well known to know the studio's deepest secrets. 

The door shut behind Bertrum, who was staring distastefully at the billiard table setting in the middle of the room. "What is this all about?" Bertrum rounded on the other man, who crossed his tanned, thick arms and leaned against the wall with one shoulder. "This had better be good, Bendy Land or not."

"Hold your horses," the heavyset man chuckled, but his gaze was calculating and serious as he watched Bertrum opposite of him. "There was a meeting that I partly overheard early this mornin' in Joey's office. It was between Joey Drew and a young man on an interview. I could imagine you were once as spritely as him at his age." His voice was laced with a thick hidden meaning at his last statement. 

Hungry for information, Bertrum stared at Norman like he was a mouse caught between his claws. "Go on," he prompted.

Norman shook his head, then nodded torwards Bertrum's suit coat pocket. "I'll speak if you give me somethin' in return."

Bertrum looked down, where the faint line of a rectangular cigarette box could be seen against the cloth. Rolling his eyes, he pulled the box labeled 'CAMEL' out, and extended his hand for Norman to take it.

"That's better." Norman pocketed the cigarettes, a look of satisfaction crossing over his features. "You're the one who's head of Research and Design, right?" After a nod of confirmation, he continued, "Joey Drew was interviewin' a young man for that specific position this mornin'. When the kid asked what would happen to you, 'the great Bertrum Piedmont', Joey dismissed it with a wave of his hand. Said that you're gonna be fired in seven days. Somethin' about your contract expirin'. That's all I caught." 

Silence was brittle in the air like a pendulum suspended in time. It was broken by a short, "You can go. Thank you." 

Once Norman exited and closed the door, Bertrum drew his foot back and kicked the leg of the pool table. A string of curses followed the bolt of pain lacing up his leg. He hopped back on the other foot, nearly losing grip on his bag. 

"God damn you Joey! That son of a -"

Several more choice words poured out his mouth as Bertrum regained his balance. 

"Tricked. Absolutely scammed. Right under my nose, he's stealing and claiming all of my hard work!" Bertrum began to feel a dull ache throbbing behind his temples, the beginning of a headache. "The contract I signed . . . I read it." He snapped his wrinkled fingers. "He must have included that he had the power to edit when it expired." 

That was when the scheming began. After dusting himself off and smoothing down his grey hair, Bertrum stepped out of the billiard room. He drew in a haggard breath, then made his way to the lift. A glassy glaze made its way to his mud brown eyes. Any greetings directed torwards him were either ignored or snapped at, then the man settled back into a brooding state all throughout his trip into the depths of the studio. 

The door to Storage Nine was already open; one of the earliest workers to arrive had already pulled the switch located in Bertrum's office to do so. Bertrum's Adam's Apple bobbed as he looked down at the area. It was cluttered, with Bendy trashcans in a cluster, several workers playing two carnival games, and more. It was all his, but soon to be ripped away. He could not let it happen. 

After checking in, the man made his way to the Attraction Storage door. It was already open, and he discovered after walking inside that Lacie Benton was within it. 

She was a short, well-muscled woman in her mid-forties. Lacie's work ethic could be compared to a mule: slow, but steady. 

The curly haired woman was in the process of picking up the head of a duck to bring it back to the Research and Design department, most likely to tweak its design. 

Bertrum stopped in front the Whipper Whill-O, a feverish gleam entering his already glassy brown eyes as he stared at it. It had four arms connected to the main section, each with three cars to ride in. The ride was the only attraction completely finished for the amusement park that could be successfully rode in. 

"Good mornin' Bertrum."

After no response was given, Lacie walked over, holding the duck head in her already grease stained arms with minimal difficulty. "Are you all right?" she drawled, shifting the object's weight. 

Bertrum ignored her question. He did not move a muscle as he stared at the machine while an idea formed in his brain, then he spoke.

"I'm going to need your help."

─━━━━━━⊱✿⊰━━━━━━─

_"The biggest park ever built, a centerfold of attractions. Each one more grand than the one before it. It makes my eyes come to tears at the thought._

_But then . . . oh Mister Drew. For all your talk of dreams, you are the true architect behind so many nightmares._

_I built this park. It was to be a masterpiece! My masterpiece!_

_And now you think you can just throw me out? Trample me to the dust and forget me?_

_No! This is my park! My glory! You may think I've gone . . . But I'm . . . still . . . here!"_

Bertrum hung his head as he released the recording button on the audio tape once he finished his speech. 

Five days had passed since Norman had alerted him that he was soon to be laid off. The short time had transformed Bertrum Piedmont. His eyes seemed to be sunken into his already puckered face, with dark circles ringing the bloodshot orbs. Stress and a lack of sleep had caused this appearance. 

After a bout of coughing into his sleeve, Bertrum shakily reached over to plug the audio recorder into a cord that was connected to the Whipper Will-O ride. 

He had rushed in the past five days to install a new program into the ride, with the help of Lacie and another employee. Previously he had been working on a Bendy automaton, and had taken its Artificial Intelligence programming to insert it into the already completed ride.

After some adjustments, the spinner had been turned from a family friendly thrill ride into a death trap. Once the audio recorder was activated, the ride would kickstart. Each arm would then sporadically smash into the ground, injuring and most likely killing the inhabitants of the cars and then hurting anyone trying to stop it. 

Therefore, upon a fatal inspection by workers of the studio or any test riders, it would surely earn Joey Drew Studios a bad name, causing the park to shut down before it even opened. 

Would there be consequences dealt by the police force and law to Bertrum in return? Yes. Those thoughts had been fleeting, brushed aside in a haze of lust for revenge. 

Joey Drew would realize that this was Bertrum's park and glory, not his. 

Bertrum began to walk out of the Attraction Storage, a slight limp in his step. Like the past four nights, he had stayed late to work on the project after every person had gone home, candles keeping him and the wires company. His ascent of the seemingly empty studio was sluggish, and it seemed like eternity once he finally made it to the exit. 

Back down in the depths of the darkened studio, unable to be heard by Bertrum, a tall man pressed 'PLAY' on an audio recorder.


	3. Chapter 3

Thick grey clouds scudded the sky overhead, blocking out the light of the sun. People scurried along the sidewalks and hopped out of automobiles, anxious to get inside for work before the impending thunderstorm broke from the heavens above. 

An air of curiosity hung in the humid atmosphere. Joey Drew Studios had been closed the day before. The simple message that all workers had the day off was delivered via radio. 

The thing was, Joey Drew never gave his employees a day off. Any type of vacation was a rare treasure to come by, and if a worker became sick, they would be hospitalized at the studio in the infirmary. These customs were in place to create a more effective working environment, according to the manager. 

If the whole studio had shut down for an entire day, it only had meant one thing: something disastrous had happened to Joey that prevented him from arriving to his work. That could range from serious illness or anything else the human imagination could concoct.

Bertrum Piedmont ducked inside of the wooden building. It was the seventh day. Two days ago he had finished inserting the Artificial Intelligence programming inside of the Whipper Will-O. The day off had been passed at his house anxiously, an odd mixture of anticipation and dread for what was to come building within him.

Today was the day. Joey would fire Bertrum - who would put up a stubborn fight as expected. He had feigned ignorance long enough. It was a fight that would quickly be lost, he knew, but that was of no matter - due to his plan that was completed. If his hard work and glory had to be taken away, Joey Drew would come crashing down right beside him.

Bertrum scanned his surroundings as he walked past a series of posters displaying the cartoons. Many of the workers milling around had an intrigued expression displayed across their features, a select few a frown. To top the strange expressions off, most were walking in pairs or a small group, heads bent to the middle as they whispered.

Bertrum was pulled out of his examination of his gossiping coworkers when a loud voice called his name.

"Mr. Piedmont!" 

He glanced across the hallway to find a lanky man waving at him. Wally Franks was standing in front of the three gears that had the emblem "Joey Drew Studios" plastered across it. On a normal day they would be in motion, but the gears were at a standstill. The janitor was most likely fixing them up in some manner. 

Bertrum walked over, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Joey wants to see ya in his office. Didn't say why." Wally smiled at him, but it didn't reach his light brown eyes. Almost everyone in the studio knew what went on behind that door when Bertrum was inside Joey's office. They could hear the angry shouts. 

Fresh anger strengthening his resolve, Bertrum nodded silently in acknowledgment. He changed his path, heading down several more hallways. 

Bertrum knocked twice on the wooden door, and after a call, "Come in," he stepped inside. There was a sharp intake of breath.

The tall man was sitting in a wheelchair with his left leg wrapped, up to his knee, in a startling white cast. A large blue and purple bruise decorated the side of his neck, disappearing below the collar of his shirt. His injured state must have been the core of the gossip currently flowing through the studio.

The man's appearance had not seemed to change other than those injuries. His green eyes tinged with grey were as bright as ever, a surge of emotions hidden behind a veil. His blond hair was parted and slicked back poshly, yet stubble lined his usually clean-cut jawline.

Joey Drew offered a tight-lipped smile, one that differed from his usual charismatic toothy grin that was always present to the general public. "Hello. Take a seat." He gestured torwards a chair that sat across his desk. 

Bertrum decided to cut the exchange of pleasantries, and gingerly sat on the edge of the seat. "What do you want?" 

Joey's smile faded, and his fingers drummed rapidly on top of the wheelchair armrest. The tapping noise filled the silence that stretched between them.

"I've decided that it's time for you to retire from the company. I want you to pick up your things and be gone by the end of the day."

"No."

"No?"

Bertrum stood up, his lip curling. Finally, he could release some of his pent up anger. He leaned over the desk, shaking a trembling finger at the currently handicapped man. "You greedy bastard! You've been planning this moment since the day you hired me. Every sly little move you have made was built up for this. Just so you could take credit for my work. But this is my work. Mine. I am _not_ leaving."

He turned his back, expecting to hear Joey reply in a commanding tone -- one that always would assure his orders were followed through -- but didn't hear anything. Bertrum took a step, making his way past the chair to exit the room before he heard a thud and something drag across the floor. 

_Click. Click-click._

Bertrum froze at the noise of a gun loading. A ring of cold metal, belonging to the barrel of a revolver, was pressed against his temple. Icy fear trickled down his spine and through his veins. His heart leapt to his throat. 

He glanced to the side, lips parting.

"Ah, ah, ah - one wrong move or a noise out of your mouth, and I shoot."

Joey was grasping the side of the desk for support with his left hand, veins bulging in his forearm. His broken left leg was suspended an inch above the floor. In his right hand rested the loaded revolver, his pointer finger hovering over the trigger. Miraculously, the tall man had dragged himself up, with astonishing strength and agility for his state, to stand behind Bertrum. 

Bertrum swallowed hard, his mustache quivering. Joey continued softly. "I knew you would say that - no. But why am I threatening you?"

There was a pause as Joey put on an act of thinking it through. A roll of thunder rumbled in the lull of speech. "Well, like you, I don't like my work being threatened. I just can't let all of these . . . _dreams_ crumble to the ground, can I? But I've made room for yours to, though." The word "dreams" had a slight sneer to it. 

A puzzle piece connected to the intricate jigsaw. Joey had activated his carefully planned deathtrap.

And lived. 

Bertrum's bloodshot eyes flickered to the side again as understanding flooded through him. A tiny flicker of sadistic satisfaction that he had caused the man some pain, though smaller than what he had hoped for, flared through him. Then it was doused by the reality of the present moment. 

"Oh. You're wondering how I ever managed to drag myself out of that cleverly turned death machine of yours with this?" Joey inquired and shifted his left leg, which made a rustling sound. 

"You see, dear Bertie, you have the spirit of a soldier. Similar to me. It's quite impressive . . . But I can't have that here in my studio. It's dangerous." A maniacal tone crept into his crooning, soft voice. "I am a soldier . . .

which means I don't ever stop fighting."

As quick as a flash, the barrel was flipped and the butt of the gun was slammed into Bertrum's skull. As the metal contacted skin, stars swirled in his vision. A strangled cry escaped his mouth. His knees buckled, and blinding pain was all that the man could feel as he crumpled to the ground in a heap. Bertrum's pulse fluttered like a hummingbird's wings beneath his skin. 

Then there was darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, the wheelchair in Henry's vision doesn't necessarily coincide with Joey's wheelchair that he is in right now. After all, at this point of time Henry isn't at the studio.


	4. Chapter 4

Eyelids were peeled open halfway to reveal a fuzzy warm light. They shut quickly in an attempt to block out the pain the seemingly blinding light brought. A moment later the eyes fluttered opened as Bertum lifted his head up. As his senses were regained Bertrum realized three horrific things. 

First, sharp pain rolled through his body in waves, the source throbbing from a wound at the right side of his skull. Bertrum could feel a layer of dried blood shift and crack along his skin at his small movements. 

Secondly, his groan of pain was muffled due to a cloth that was tightly bound over his mouth and around his head. Bertrum's tongue felt thick and dry, like the gag had sucked all moisture out of his throat. He tried to reach up to remove it, but was stopped. His wrists were tied together in a chafing rope behind his back. 

Third, he was leaning against a thick black bar, legs spread out in front of him. Identical bars surrounded him in a rectangular shape, creating a confining cell. 

Panic rose in Bertrum's chest, and he struggled to push himself into a standing position. His sore muscles screamed at the effort, but after one failed attempt that involved him falling to his knees the man was standing. Chest heaving for breath, he rested a shoulder on the bar in front of him for support and squinted to observe his surroundings. 

Bertrum was greeted by the sight of a room lined with jail cells. His single cell rested near one of said large jail cells, by the back wall. After a moment of examination, he found that his cage was locked beneath a thick padlock. When he looked up he was shocked to see a pair of hazel eyes staring at him within the nearest large cell.

"Bertrum - thank the Lord you're awake! You've been unconscious since I got here and woke up. I thought you might be able to answer some of my questions . . . but I suppose not."

The eyes and drawling voice belonged to Lacie Benton, who had her arms folded as she looked Bertrum up and down through the ivory bars separating them. Short, curly hair framed her flushed face, where a nasty cut ran diagonally across her cheek. If he squinted enough, he could make out a man against the far wall in the shadows within her cell, his knees brought up to his chest and his head down. 

Lacie continued slowly, as if she was trying to convince herself of something. "Joey Drew. This moronic joke has to do with Joey."

Joey Drew. The mention of his name brought back a flood of memories. Though from an hour, a day, or a week ago, he did not know. The meeting to fire Bertrum. Joey's broken leg. The gun. He had learned Bertrum's destructive plan. 

A door leading into the room that Bertrum had not seen before swung open. 

"Speak of the devil," the middle-aged woman murmured and clasped the bars in front of her. A band of gold glinted from her ring finger. 

"What's the big idea, Joey? I haven't done my job well enough, and you want to lock me behind bars?"

Joey came into view. His lean arm muscles rippled beneath his sleeves as he worked to roll the wheelchair he was sitting in along. He stopped to shut the door with a bang, then continued until he was in front of Lacie's cell, but angled himself so both Bertrum and her could see him. 

"Why, don't you already know dear? It's hardly a joke," Joey said. Lacie's weathered face fell as all hope was leeched from the atmosphere.

"I see more than you think. Did you really believe that a new program installation in a ride would escape my notice? Of course, I did find out it was for Bertrum's personal gain." 

The short woman looked at Joey's leg wrapped in a cast, at the man curled up behind her, then at Bertrum across from her. A raging expression crossed her features. 

Bertrum's brown eyes widened. Not only had he damned himself to whatever madness Joey had planned, but he had also brought Lacie and the other Research and Design department worker down with him. The two had both worked on the mechanics of the wiring for the ride, at the request of Bertrum. The man -- who was currently curled in the shadows -- had questioned why they needed a new program for the Whipper Will-O, but Bertrum never revealed what his destructive plan was and what it would do, despite his coworker's urgings.

"I never knew it would hurt you! I swear, Bertrum was the one who had me work on that ride. I didn't - don't know what it even does!" Lacie protested, panic edging into her tone. 

Joey waved her off like a person waving away a fly. "Involvement in any threat torwards my company I . . . don't like. Bertrum's timing was quite convenient, in fact." He cast a sneering glance torwards Bertrum as he added, "In case you're wondering why you can't speak - your temper can get on my nerves quite easily."

Fear for his life bubbled through Bertrum's veins. A light-headed dizziness swept through him, and he had to work to ease himself to the ground before his legs collapsed by their own will. Once seated he stared emptily at the space in front of him, listening to the conversation the best he could. 

"What is so convenient about this?"

"Bertrum of all people would understand that personal plans are not shared. But I suppose it won't matter soon if you three know, anyhow." The foreboding words chilled Bertrum down to the bone. 

"That Bendy Land your department is building - it needs another touch. Something to make it stand out above and beyond the rest. People greeting the parkgoers in cartoon costumes is ordinary. A living, breathing cartoon - now /that would be extraordinary!" Joey's words were spun in a fervent trance, like he was delivering an inspirational speech to a large crowd. "Children and families would line up for miles on end to see the real, dancing demon. Imagine the money that would be made."

"Behind the scenes, I've been working. Details aren't important, but I found I need one more ingredient to make it possible . . . a human's soul."

Lacie's wavering voice cut through Joey's tirade. "The authorities will know that we're missing - my family will tell them. This insanity of yours won't last long, and will just end you up behind bars."

Family. The word struck a chord in Bertrum's aching heart. His sister, Beatrice, was at his house. The female had been under his care and support since he was a young man. What would she do without him? 

Whenever she was not inside of an institution for her mental illness, her bright, never failing spirit always greeted him when he came home from a long day at work. Beatrice had managed to hold a small amount of space within his stony heart. When his wife passed away in their early years of marriage his heart had hardened, and in turn he buried his grief in work. But every single year Beatrice had been by his side.

"My dear, we are," Joey paused and gestured at the whole room with a flourish of his hands. "Far beneath the studio. No investigation will lead anyone to this location I've built - so I wouldn't bother screaming for help, it would just tire you out."

Bertrum was in a shocked stupor, unable to believe what he was hearing. He was startled out of it when he found that Joey had wheeled himself to face Bertrum's cage. 

"Turn around. I'm going to take away the rope," Joey said. With a bit of shuffling, he did as was asked, now on his knees. By now, he would do anything to cut out some of the pain that was wracking his body. 

He felt a tugging, then the binding rope was dropped at his feet. Bertrum began to pull his arms away to reach up and take the gag out of his mouth, but his wrists were firmly grasped. He grimaced as they were pulled out and away from his back by Joey in an iron grip.

"Not so fast. You get the first turn . . . I would say this won't hurt, but I'd be lying," Joey said. Bertrum squirmed like a fish out of water to get away, but try as he might, he couldn't escape the long, steely fingers. 

Suddenly, he felt a needle be inserted in the underside of his exposed wrist. He grunted from the sharp pain of the surprise, and twisted his head to get a glimpse at what was being pushed into his veins. 

It was a syringe, filled with a thick, murky black liquid that made Bertrum's stomach churn. It resembled ink.*

Once the substance was fully inside of his bloodstream, Joey placed the syringe on his lap and drew a gun; the same that he had knocked Bertrum out with. Once again, Bertrum made a move to raise his hands to take away the gag, but Joey ordered, "Turn around." Without much of a choice with the weapon present, the man rose from his knees shakily and faced the blond-haired man. 

Not wasting much time, Joey loaded the revolver and pointed it at Bertrum's chest, a sickening smile painted on his face. He pulled the trigger.

_Bang._

Bertrum looked down and a gurgle escaped his lips, muffled by the cloth around his mouth. A scarlet circle was blossoming to stain his rumpled shirt and a crimson stream of liquid trailed out of his mouth and down the left side of his chin. 

A maniacal laugh bubbled from Joey's lips. A horrified gasp that belonged to Lacie sounded from behind the handicapped man as she watched.

Intense pain like no other coursed through Bertrum's body for a brief moment that felt like eternity. Stars exploded over his vision. Then it all blinked out. 

His lifeless body tilted, pulled to the ground by gravity, then fell to the side with a thump.

─━━━━━━⊱✿⊰━━━━━━─

There had been utter darkness and an emptiness surrounding them for what seemed like an eternity. That was, until a small pinprick of light pulsed far ahead. That was when the voices came.

They were unrecognizable, screaming noises that pulsed in time with the light, which was beginning to grow in size. The loud buzzing made the being feel like tearing their hair out, screaming in time with the others until its voice gave away, or to curl up in a ball - but none of those actions were possible in the unearthly realm. All they could do was move slowly to the light, pushed along by an unidentifiable substance. 

Eventually the spot of light consumed everything. There was one last, harsh buzz before the light exploded. 

The explosion transferred the being into a physical state. They had limbs that connected together to form a malnourished, human shaped body, but the sticky substance pooling below them matched what made up their solid entity. 

Not flesh. Ink.

Their eyes -- which resembled a pair of embers -- peeled open to reveal a blurry, dim surrounding. With trembling fingers they lifted their arms up, and hands came into focus after a long moment.

There were five, smooth fingers connected to a skinny wrist, which was attached to a skinny forearm. Everything about the body form was colored pitch black and slightly sagging down from gravity, yet somehow all remained composed.

The mournful, liquid eyes trailed up from their examination of themself to stare at something in front of them. It was a tall man sitting in a wheelchair with a clipboard in hand, staring intently down at the kneeling creature. The inky humanoid could not connect the noises coming from the mouth of the human to a meaning or language, it was just a sound that rose and fell in pitch.

"Five fingers and five toes . . . _not_ the number I need. The face is malformed and dripping, though the ink is compact -- too compact -- around the torso." 

The man, Joey, mumbled these things as he jotted them down, taking a few glances at the staring creature every so often. To his side rested three coffins, surrounded by flickering candles. One of the coffin lids was resting open.

Looming above their head was something that resembled a giant spout and was connected to a large and complex piece of machinery. They had been born from the Ink Machine.

The inky being lowered their hands and tightly folded their arms against its chest, not bothering to try to stand. An empty, hollow feeling filled their soul - if it could even be called that. There was a gaping hole looming in what should have been their identity and sense of belonging. However hard they searched for it, it simply slipped away from their mental grasp like an elusive butterfly. 

An overwhelming sense of dread and hopelessness washed over them like a tidal wave. Only one word was present that could begin to describe what they could feel so much, it hurt.

Lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the supposed ink that is being put into Bertrum is meant to be representational. What it represents is the details or ingredients of the ritual proccess that is mostly unknown to the players of the game. 
> 
> The. Hype. For. Chapter. 5. Tomorrow. Is. Real.
> 
> Since this is based off of a theory, there's a few things you might want to know. This is the last part of this story for now. If the theory that Bertrum is a Lost one is dispelled, then I'll leave this up here as a piece of theoretical writing. If not- it seems like we'll be getting more info about the Lost ones and how they live from Chapter 5. That being said, I may continue this eventually if there's enough context for a plot, following Bertrum as a Lost one. 
> 
> Also, constructive criticism for this whole story is welcome!
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
